Patriot Saloon
PATRIOT SALOON
MAN, IT STILL smells like the Idiot," my friend Aaron says, entering Tribeca's Patriot Saloon and sniffing the bouquet of stale beer and body odor. "What'd they do, bottle that scent when they tore down that shithole?"
He, of course, speaks of the Village Idiot. For several weeks, the deceased dive has peppered my thoughts. This is not good. When recalling that Meatpacking meat market, I crave memory-erasing quantities of Pabst. And that is why I'm at the Patriot Saloon, the Idiot's offspring.
When the Idiot was doomed by a fatal rent increase, owner Tom McNeil packed a replacement honky-tonk kit (wild women and Wild Turkey included!) and sent it downtown on the 2 train. When the subway doors opened, McNeil set up 'tonk on Tribeca's seemingly last seedy block. On Chambers St., where turn-of-the-century structures soar, shops peddle dollar-store dreck, cellphones and Subway sandwiches. And now, debauchery. Outside the Patriot, a chalkboard reads FUCKING SHUT UP AND DRINK. Old friend, welcome home.
Not that this is a place I'd ever live. Or, rather, the Patriot is exactly like a place I used to live. In college. Snag a seat inside the cavernous saloon-large enough to suspend an Andre the Giant-sized alligator from the ceiling-and marvel at décor as delicate as the pitchers of Pabst.
Beer signs and Elvis Presley pictures are hung on deliberate 45-degree slants. Lighting is solely neon, leading to reflexive squinting. Several bras dangle from ship's-wheel chandeliers. An entire wall is slathered with a Jackson Pollock splatter-paint imitation.
The effect, taken as a whole, is forced. Does every Bud sign have to be hung on an angle? (Side note: The sole level wall-hanging is an enormous American flag-the Patriot's only patriotic talisman.) What made the Idiot great was casual disrepair that came from never repairing anything.
Here, the only visible broken fixture is the bathroom's latch-a hepatitis-deficient toilet stocked with t.p., mind you. The clientele may be to blame. Sure, a few back-slapping construction workers keep the blue-collar cred, but most patrons bear belt-attached photo IDs of the nearby financial sector. And the weekends, like clockwork, bring a bachelorette and bar-dancing bonanza.
But, you know, who gives a fuck? This is a dive bar. We're here to drink. To test-drive Idiot, version 2.0, Aaron and Steve have volunteered their stomachs. We pony up for pitchers of Pabst ($5.50) and Bud ($8) from a familiar midriff-baring sight.
"That's Untouchable Jen," Steve whispers, grinning mawkishly at the Idiot's former bartender fixture. She tended to Chelsea's flock of daytime drunks like a liquored-up mother hen, and seems to have resumed routine at the Patriot. Pony-tailed men with crumpled dollar bills are buying her shots, which she accepts and drinks with aplomb. At least some things don't change.
Like the barback wearing a Village Idiot shirt.
And the beer taps.
"Oh, man, this tastes like caramelized Styrofoam," Steve says, sipping his Bud.
"When did they start cutting beer with antifreeze?" Aaron asks.
My Pabst tastes pleasant, however. The boys wince through their suds while Hank Williams Jr.'s ode to drinking and drugs, "Family Tradition," spins at ear-squashing levels. Though the beer is rancid, its judgment-impairing effects soon take hold:
"Man, that blonde sure is cute," Steve says, pointing at a woman wearing black stretch pants and white tennis shoes.
"She looks pretty cheap," I reply. She trails a finger across a construction worker's stubbly cheek.
"I'm cheap, too," says Steve.
After we finish our first pitchers (there's never just one pitcher, especially at $5.50), we head to the upstairs "lounge" to shoot pool. More off-kilter beer signs, a second Pollock-esque wall, a puck-operated bowling machine and a single ratty pool table. We order more beer. And cringe.
Next to a couple scarfing Popeye's chicken sits the stubbly construction worker. On his lap, dry humping with abandon, is the blonde. We sip our Pabst and ponder.
"It's like watching the Discovery Channel: Mating Habits of the Drunk Temp Worker," Steve says.
The blonde hops onto the construction worker's thigh and starts licking his ear.
"I told you she was cheap," I say.
"It's the Patriot-what do you expect?" Steve says. And with that, a new understanding is born.